What I didn’t mention was that we’d transformed our, bedroom into a very deliberate—and unmistakably personal—“intimacy zone.” We scattered lacy lingerie under the pillows, planted adult toys in the drawers, left massage oils out in plain sight, and filled our streaming queue with a very suggestive lineup of shows.

The next morning, Monica came stomping into the kitchen, visibly rattled and pale. “We’ll take the guest room,” she muttered stiffly, avoiding eye contact. I just smiled and handed her a cup of coffee.She hasn’t set foot in our bedroom since. In fact, the last time they visited for the holidays? They booked a hotel instead.